


you gave me the key then you locked every lock, when I can't breathe I won't ask you to stop

by pharadoxly



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, inspired by tumblr prompts - link in the notes, lots of blood and time skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5031817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pharadoxly/pseuds/pharadoxly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's day twenty-one and he doesn't give a fuck. He says it. He says, "You don’t need freedom if I give you everything you need." And Misaki seems to understand, even if he vomits right after. </p><p>Misaki's so beautiful, and red, just like the bloodstream they share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you gave me the key then you locked every lock, when I can't breathe I won't ask you to stop

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration for this came from [this blog](http://angstmemes.tumblr.com/) under the /kidnapping tag, so you know who to blame  
> the title comes from [R.I.P to my youth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKH-rcO6PA8) by the neighborhood and I really recommend it, it's some deep shit
> 
> hope you enjoy this even if i'm a bad, bad person

 

He sees Misaki in the summer heat, day minus fourteen, skateboarding on the wire of the ungrateful world, the dangerous city, while stoplights turn red and the sky is the same shade of blue as the day before. Except that it's not.

Misaki flames deep marvelous red, there's smoke all over the place and he can't see a thing. There're burning bullets in his mind [he smiles] and a burning wound caged inside his chest that he keeps dirty, keeps raw, keeps alive with more aggressiveness than he's ever cared to keep _anything_ alive.

He walks where Misaki's wheels have left their black marks, a pattern, his only compass.

 

  
And when summer spirals away with its zenith, day minus one, Fushimi doesn't miss it. He doesn't and it's so simple, so easy to forget about the cold that blows on his flesh, at times, because he knows he's never going to feel it ever again fairly soon, he knows, exactly like he still remembers the capital of every small country all over the world and how many times you have to hit for a skull to shatter.

Misaki's body isn't weak, on day one, isn't weak at all. Fushimi thinks it's holy. It's almost like a church when some sick bigot decides to turn it into rotten nothingness, like it often and not surprisingly happens in the world out there, that fucking hole of wrongs and crazies. Down here, down here is the real world. He can't wait until Misaki opens his eyes and sees it [sees him] for the first time.

 

  
On day two Misaki runs after him, like he's supposed to do. His hands shoot up and clench around bars that freeze his hands, but he's hot all over, red all over, and he can't feel the cold as the situation is right now. He's over his head, but Fushimi can predict when people will go crazy. (It started with himself and a child that screamed at the mirror, at the father, fist tight, never got out of it without a bruise he used to think of as cheap. Misaki will end up with purple palms and blue fingertips, the cold he doesn't suffer, and that's too poetic for the both of them. )

Fushimi stares at him from the other side. But that's going to change soon; the other side feels like a mousetrap and, goodness, who would love to end up in one of those?

Misaki screams, like he really means it. He spits out every bad thing his mind comes up with like venom, as if Fushimi hadn't enough chemicals running with his blood like in a pointless horserace. Misaki has to fuel his words with gall or his strength and bravery will wear out, his warm adrenalin, and all that'll be left is a small and dizzy and helpless boy in a cold cage, a colder basement, and dark souls to play with. All Fushimi has to do is wait.

 

 

Fushimi waits until day three, and since Misaki hasn't lost the will to shriek that stupid word at the stupid world that won't listen to him, can't anyways, he goes down. He counts the steps, five, six. At the ninth, Misaki shouts for Help [never for Him, not yet] over the door. Fushimi finds him kicking the opposite wall in immature wrath, but the wall can't break. Fushimi sits on the ground and hugs his own knees.

So after a while Misaki goes quiet, exhales a breath that sounds like a ghost leaving his body. It also looks like it. But he's always that red Fushimi wants to hold, that leaves him breathless like the worst of deseases. Misaki's gunpowder slips into his nostrils even when Fushimi doesn't look at him, it's scary, that's right.

"Do I even fucking know you?" Misaki's soaked with the color of his sweat. "Get me out of here."

Fushimi doesn't want to be weak and look at how beautiful he is, when he orders him around. "I can't."

The ghost is back. The cage violently shakes, Fushimi's whole world does just the same, but he stays still. Misaki is a beast, his animal as he tries to tear him apart. "Goddamned asshole! Let me the fuck out!"

"I said I can't, Misaki," he replies, drifting heavy blue eyes on him. He doesn't expect Misaki to understand, he doesn't. "Are you too stupid even to sit down and behave? Look at me. I'm here."

Misaki may as well crumble then and there, but his eyes keep flaming, his soul keeps baring nails and teeth. "Sicko."

Fushimi finds every reason in the world to smile wider.

 

  
Day ten is the delicate card of a deck and Fushimi clutches it at his chest. It's only been a little while, Misaki's a little stubborn, he forgives the sinners if he has to.

He's given him the scraps of every little thing, Misaki's always slaughtered them like they were Fushimi's matt heart! Fushimi knows the shape of his mouth by heart and even more dearly as it cuts through steel bars and lands obscenities that taste like full-mouth kisses.

["Not eating the food I give you is not going to make me give you nicer food," he said on the day he noticed how gorgeously Misaki's silly hands complement the bars.]

But on day ten he eats, dirtying pads and lips and eyes, and he moodily pushes away the dish when he's not hungry anymore. He doesn't thank Fushimi. Then their eyes meet and, even if he's glutted with the bread of Fushimi's hands, he's more of a corpse than before. Fushimi goes back upstairs and tries not to care.

 

  
By day seventeen Misaki does not move when the lights switch on in his dark, dark room and stares at a wall instead, and Fushimi watches his vertebrae with parted lips and the old soul beginning to creep like a withered stem. By day seventeen Misaki knows when he's coming down and knows when he's here, knows when he brings food and when he brings only his words on the same plastic plate. It's day seventeen and Fushimi wants to breathe him in, but even the air around Misaki is still slow-burning with awareness and he's got those everlasting red lungs, little red pores on his tell-tale red face, Fushimi isn't idiot enough not to know how their story would go.

He's good enough not to lose patience, though, because wars are won with allies and time, not by heroes and angels. Alliances aren't even needed, not in this small world. [Not if they're not with Misaki.]

 

  
Day twenty hits him like a wave that dries too fast and too soon, and Misaki's looking at him from the other side of waters refusing to flow. They're like him, in those eyes so alive Fushimi feels smothered, and glossy and full. But because Misaki doesn't even try to segregate them anymore Fushimi feels loved.

All Misaki needs is him, nothing else.

I’m keeping you safe down here, away from the world, and Misaki wants to cry.

Misaki holds out his hand and it passes through the cage, it's the first time. Hours and days have never held so much meaning before. Everything has a meaning, even Misaki's shouts and wall-staring; Fushimi grasps it with his claws, counts the seconds until Misaki unfolds before him, he counts them endlessly even as they turn into other hours and days and Fushimi takes his head in his own hands, when it's dark and quiet, and _hands are inside his head_ and pull out mouses worming their way across his passion. And he longs, how he longs, for its dark roots spiraling down, down, so much he has to turn his back to the light.

It's day twenty-one and he doesn't give a fuck. He says it. He says, "You don’t need freedom if I give you everything you need." And Misaki seems to understand, even if he vomits right after. Misaki's so beautiful, and red, just like the bloodstream they share.

 

  
Before day thirty Misaki wanted to see every little place in that big world he came from and Fushimi wants to touch every little shape, every little point of Misaki's sun-kissed skin, the mesmerizing contact of warmth with something that has been cold since the day he can remember. He wants this like tomorrow it'll be too late, but it's not, as Misaki's [stomach, hands, chest] feel more welcoming every day that tick-tocks away. Before day thirty Misaki was so young, and Fushimi's soul knows so many things, those walls whisper since forever, and Misaki needs protection since forever anyway. Misaki used to hurt himself, on day thirty he doesn't have to anymore.

Coughing his life on the dry floor, Misaki is making too much noise. "Fuck you," he splutters, nose dropping red, hands gripping at something that isn't there.

Fushimi's hand drops the knife, ice on the top and flames on the handle, ice and hot, and Fushimi's hand feels dead. Which is none of the two. His body's on its feet, Misaki's one lies before them. Misaki looks at him in the eye, the little idiot. Fushimi's foot nudges his face. "You don’t get to decide anything, understood, Misaki? I make the rules and you obey them if you want to remain unharmed."

Misaki wanted to see every little place in the world, he ended up in a too small one. That's the story, baby. That's the story.

 

  
This is day fifty-six, baby, and sorry if it hurts. Sorry if it's so hard to breathe, sorry if there's too much silence, Misaki crawling where the cage rises and staring at the clouds, and sorry if there aren't any clouds. Just a ceiling.

"Misaki."

Fushimi caresses his chin. He laughs when Misaki's flame doesn't burst out, but day fifteen is long gone. Misaki's eyes don't lose their hollow ghost until day sixty, when Fushimi sinks his tongue in his throat, buries his life where he's sure none of them can reach.

It's a deal of ownership. Misaki doesn't get it. He touches his own lips like they're there for the first time. Maybe in some way they are.

They're close, their breaths melt, their hands, Fushimi believes, may as well stay tangled in that mess where nothing belongs to anyone but everything belongs to him.

On day seventy-two he mourns when Misaki forgets to eat, seventy-three his shortest knife makes Misaki's cheek bleed and it looks like a corpse has awoken.

On day seventy-five Misaki calls his name like he once used to scream when he knows Fushimi's hiding behind the door. It's sweet, tragic, treasurable. Fushimi kisses him deep and good.

Sometimes, and it starts with day one hundred, Misaki even asks him to stay.

 

  
"I don't know," Misaki says simply. He brushes some hair away, looking at Fushimi like he's used to the cold, used to the blue, and doesn't care.

"So you wouldn't run away."

"Who knows."

"Are you costantly afraid, Misaki?" Fushimi's head is spinning, and he's all Misaki really needs.

"Not often," Misaki replies honestly, his whole body is honest. He doesn't need to lie. "Shit. Not anymore."

"That's a shame." Fushimi smiles, truly, and gets up from the floor. "I bought you some new clothes, you know."

Misaki's room is so, so dark but Misaki himself is the lantern, even if he can see only the outlines. "Saru."

Fushimi has always had eyes that search the floor, if nothing else not to see people go.

Misaki has always had a tongue like a miracle. "Be back soon." And next time you hurt me, hurt me harder, and next time you own me, I won't ever ever forget I'm yours;

 

  
Misaki flames red from his bones and Fushimi's choking on the addicting smoke.

 

  
On day two hundred and five it's Misaki's blood trailing starry wishes on his hands, six and Misaki's thumbs brush softly Fushimi's shut eyes and beautiful guilt, and nine, Misaki's hips sliding down with the force of a hurricane. Fushimi doesn't believe there's anything beyond.

  
"I'm not going to kill you. Not yet."

Misaki vomits again, vomits the clouds and the dream he had where he was saved and Fushimi was saved and the world went down in flames. [Fushimi was told about that one between a sweaty touch and another.]

So Fushimi knows the secret hacks of Misaki's mind like he knows the conformation of his lips, both after he's kissed him eternally and when he doesn't for days. He sometimes itches to slit his throat, when Misaki runs his mouth, and if he abruptly decided to shut it with a knife or two Misaki wouldn't complain. If his body wasn't weak [and it surely isn't now, either] then now it's Fushimi's. And as long as it's Fushimi's, then he doesn't even need air.

They both don't talk about it.

 

  
Misaki opens up wide like fauces, day one hundred fifty four. It's embarrassing to think he came from the world outside, he's such an alive babe when Fushimi counts down the steps to him, impatient. Misaki waits on the floor as he unlocks the cage, unlocks his smiles, unlocks Misaki's eyes to open and violent.

Day one hundred fifty four, Misaki looks and acts violent with him and that's the best way Fushimi can receive his love. Just like Misaki once received leftovers from his hands like an imprisoned beast, and flowers grew in those places in their lungs where now only lies faint smother. Those were the days.

The air in Fushimi is sucked away and never comes back, unless Misaki lends him his skin like those '50s bitches and pushes harder, harder. He cries with breaths now, and rushed sighs both when he comes and when his skin vomits red all over the place. The best thing is that Misaki isn't shy, and that lets Fushimi not wanting to breathe again.

Until Misaki goes to pieces. The day he does not know. Nearly midnight.

"I picked you off the street because you were beautiful," Fushimi says, and it's never going to be enough, so perhaps he should add _and all I ever think about is you, only you, to me there's only you_ and it's not like it would be a lie, but Misaki is looking at him like he doesn't see him blue [with a face, with love to give and not only knives and darkness to torture with] anymore. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut, and maybe he doesn't care enough about his own redemption to do so. It's Misaki's own fault if he doesn't understand.

Seasons pass and the basement feels cold in that second summer [since they both've been fully alive], when he touches a wall with a hand open like his heart will never be and Misaki sits on the floor, just his oversized trousers on and wishes he could stare at the clouds, but Fushimi now can stare at Misaki as long as he wants, which is just as good.

It's different that winter when snow falls, falls and falls as if the sky doesn't want to sew up a wound. Misaki's face is white, that white that looks like heavens themselves transfixed him with one of their arrows, and Fushimi wants to cut open his arms and let whatever flows in them drop down on his face, still.

Misaki's warm, always.

 

  
"Look at me, will you?" He keeps on grumbling but with fingers closed in a fist. Oh, if Misaki is caged by steel, he should know that Fushimi is caged by much worse things, angrier, deeper. "Look only at me," Fushimi complains, and complains, but Misaki is giving him what he wants, Misaki is giving him everything exactly as he gets everything he needs.

Misaki is white, but somehow more red than ever. And looks at him, nodding at his maddening migrain that grows wider every time Misaki drifts his eyes to the ceiling. He should know that Misaki has long since stopped his high hopes where he can burn them down.

Misaki will stay forever.

Fushimi's lungs explode and he kisses every side of Misaki's face, and this is forever, forever.

  
Day seven hundred and eighty four, Fushimi wishes Misaki's hands would fucking die.

He wishes Misaki's desires would fucking DIE, like every good thing does.

The part he hates the most is when Misaki's hands cling to him for him not to go upstairs and forget him there. He would never but he's good at faking. Misaki's doesn't give away to be afraid of things, but he is.

Misaki's lost everything, aside from Fushimi, and that's the most beautiful and sick part of the deal, one Fushimi couldn't carry on without. It's not like he loves Misaki, but Misaki loves him like only brave and broken souls do and he can't leave.

So, that's meant to be forever; that's the deal.

  
Eight hundren crosses on the calendar's squares. Dinner is ready at midnight. Misaki manages to walk from the bathroom to the kitchen table, that's good. He's showered and dressed pretty, and tasteful under Fushimi's gaze. "Happy birthday," Fushimi greets, dismissing, eyes sliding on the table set for them. Everything he could manage to find red, is. A tribute.

Misaki makes himself comfortable on the chair, opposite to Saruhiko, and they eat with only the discreet clatter of tableware.

Misaki goes as he came, quietly untamable but firm as a cross in a graveyard.

  
Ghosts know what this is about. It's about control. Fushimi lets the cage open. Because Misaki as scarred as he is can't leave either, every single thing stays inside.

  
But then, it doesn't surprise him in the least how the strings are pulled, one day, maybe the only one he really goes through alive among the many he inflicted to himself, with hands against metal, that grasp without caring to keep close, with shuddering feet, but shadows as steady as the temple of Death.

It's funny how the best way to be immortal is to die, and he laughs full-heartedly at Misaki's hands hating him, desperately trying to keep him _[them]_ afloat, and Misaki's broken prayers against his hair, ignoring the blood sprawled underneath like a butterfly, where one wing belongs to Fushimi and the other to him. Entrancing.

Then, then forehead touches almost as warm as mouths longing, longing maybe for each other, maybe for the end, but they feel nothing.

Misaki's thunder-loud heartbeats that echo, right beside him. Then, nothing.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments/any kind of feedback is always much appreciated and welcomed  
> also, if you have any questions about this piece (because I left the ending a bit uncertain on purpose, yea) I'll be happy to answer so don't be afraid
> 
> again, please check out [this sickeningly awesome blog](http://angstmemes.tumblr.com/) and [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKH-rcO6PA8), it's worth it  
> here you also have my [blog](http://pharadoxly.tumblr.com) if you wanna talk to me about sarumi or k or how your day has been!


End file.
